


Definitely, never, Alpha.

by OneOrganisedMess



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan)
Genre: Alpha Bane, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Bottom John Blake, Breeding Kink, Dom/sub Undertones, Dubious Consent, Feminization, Kidnapping, Knotting, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mpreg, Omega John Blake, Possessive Behavior, Protective, Scenting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-05
Updated: 2019-04-28
Packaged: 2019-09-12 07:14:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16868500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OneOrganisedMess/pseuds/OneOrganisedMess
Summary: Police Officer first, Omega second. That's how John sees himself. There's nothing he can't do, no reason he should be treated differently, even if most think otherwise. There's a fire that burns in him, a brightness and strength that even the darkest of creatures are drawn to.Creatures that were born into darkness, moulded by it.An Alpha like Bane doesn't give second chances to little birds that fly willingly into his outstretched hands, not when they're as deliciously resilient as this Omega.





	1. Chapter 1

* * *

 

“You really shouldn’t give Foley so much shit Blake, -the guy hates your guts enough.” The bar is loud, voices heightened in intoxication typical of a Friday night making their conversation half heard.

“That’s exactly why I give him shit. The guy can’t stand me standing up to someone like _him._ ”

The two officers are overlooked in the bar, a locals spot full of folks from all walks of life. Oldies line the bar, dirty glasses of dark liquids filling their hands. Brokers and businessmen just clocked off for the week’s end, work ties askew and sleeves rolled. The underage trying the door staff and the regulars shooting balls. A hum fills the air, voices raised and music blaring -scents mingling.

“Someone like _him?_ Blake, I’m a little hurt bud,” Josh teases, polishing off the last remnants of his drink in one fell swoop, eyes holding that third drink glaze. His partner never can hold his drink. As if that’s ever stopped the bulky alpha, however. The blonde drinks like he’s never left the frat house. 

John rolls his eyes, swirling his own drink in it’s glass. He’s never been one for bottled beer. “You know what I meant, asshole.”

“Yeah, that Foley is a right knot-head who can’t stand the idea of you doing anything other than following his orders. Don’t want you getting any _silly_ idea’s like you can _actually_ make decisions yourself.”

“Who knows, next we might even want the vote!" 

And this is why John likes his partner.

The kid might not hold his alcohol, might have questionable music taste -much of which John is forced to listen to between duty calls, but he could have worse. Foley had dumped him on John, flung the six foot something blonde his way as John’s new partner. He’d been glad to find out looks were deceiving _\- the last thing he’d needed was another hot headed alpha to contend with._

_No, Josh was nice -inexperienced maybe, a pup really, but he thought with his head not his knot._

And that’s good enough for John Robin Blake.

“You could always ask the Commissioner to make Foley lay off a little?” John rolls his eyes at this. Sure, get the well-respected police commissioner to tell Foley to fuck off -to fight his battles for him. Real progressive.

“Hard pass.” 

Josh snorts loudly while flagging a passing waitress, bright eyes charming and warm. Their server gives him the appreciative once-over, gaze growing heated at the flash of a badge. Nothing like a straight and narrow _alpha_ officer to get the ladies flustered.

John receives no such hungry gaze. Not that he ever does. 

No, the gazes he gets are worse. Disgust is a front-runner, and boy does he enjoy that look. Who is he, an _omega -_ to be a serving officer. Sure, _it’s legal._ John could be the mayor of fucking Gotham if he wanted to. _Hell_ -he’d probably do a damn good job of it too. But he’d need the support of the people _._ Need respect.

And no amount of progressive workplace legislation can make people respect him as anything other than his secondary gender.

John’s thankful when their server simply stares a little too long in his direction, subtly breathing in his dulled scent, before eyes are back on his partner as she enthusiastically takes his order. 

Intrigue is better than disgust. John down’s his drink, eyes watering at the burn and he wipes at his mouth.

“And you say _I_ can’t handle my drink.” Josh is cocky as he smirks, eyes glistening as another beer is placed before him, blue gaze flickering towards the waitress. A beta, multiple partners _-if the array of scents dusting her own is anything to go by._ Proud then -and John’s far from one to judge. Big eyes with a chest to match. Josh’s type.

Guess he’s going home one partner down. Typical. 

“Don’t give me that look, Blake, I already _have_ two parents, -thought you were supposed to be my cool co-worker.” Josh ducks his head and groans. John smirks.

“Didn’t say a word.”

John leaves the dated bar a partner down three hours later, it’s starting to spit outside -the dreary Gotham weather dishing it’s usual. He ducks his head, weighing up walking over a cab -it’s not far, a half hour walk tops. He’d normally do it. If he were alone.

The hand at his back is hot against his slightly damp jacket, “Your place or mine?” 

Neither pays attention as they stumble through John’s crummy apartment door. The sight of half-finished takeout and unironed uniforms litter the kitchen dining living area. _Open plan living,_ his landlord had called it. John calls it overpriced. Still, the beta seems more interested in swallowing John’s tongue than observing his messy living space. He’s not complaining. 

“Bedroom?”

“Second on the right.”

He’s slicked and filled before they even turn the lights on, and John grunts at the burn, hips rubbing against the cheap material of his bed. John’s eyes water slightly at the pace, a little quicker than he’d like but the drag against his prostate has his eyes rolling back. He can feel himself painfully rubbing into his comforter, the sensitive head of his cock catching on every other thrust. He can feel his orgasm building already.

“ _Fuck,_ you’re so tight _._ Like a bitch in heat.” The words aren’t sexy, quite the opposite. John tunes it out. 

They don’t cuddle once it’s over, and John sees him out with the beta’s release still dribbling down his inner thigh. Quick and discrete, just how he likes it. Fast and nameless, and definitely never **_Alpha._**

* * *

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Did someone order takeout with a side of pre heat?

* * *

John glanced at his rearview mirror, the ostentatious windows and dark stone of Wayne Manor striking against the landscape. Tall and intimidating and nothing like the man John had found inside. Seeing such a man, a man such as the _Batman_ , crippled and without direction, well, it was a sorry sight. He’d seemed surprised at John’s words, even saddened by the news of the boys home. But Billionaire tears didn’t feed hungry kids nor save them. He was lucky, some lacked the luxury of a mansion to hide away and watch the world burn in.

Bruce Wayne had been his last hope, and true to its form, Gotham had managed to smother even that small remainder of hope. Which left John against the world, it seemed. Or at least against an unbelieving and wrongly driven Foley. And the commissioner _-_

 _Well,_ Gordon can’t help -not now, John thinks bitterly, flashes of a half-conscious and heavily bleeding Police Commissioner clouding his thoughts. Someone like Commissioner Gordon, imposing in a gentle way, with a gut feeling not rivalled by many, had looked a sorry sight. Maybe John should have idolised a man such as that, more than _the Bat._

But they’re both gone now, in their own ways. Both crippled, some more literally than others. Which leaves John back where he started. _Or_ , John thinks with a humourless laugh, worse off than before. Now there’s nobody between him and Foley and John just knows that means he’ll be relegated to paperwork and pushing Coffee and having to listen to incessant office gossip. Meanwhile, kids are coming out the tunnels in bigger numbers than rats; and the rats are living.  

So it’s down to John, the thought a little daunting. 

He ducks between his car and apartment swiftly, jacket keeping little of the downpour from drenching his clothes. The sensation isn’t unwelcomed, the cool droplets cling to the exposed skin of his collar soothingly. He shook off any remainder between the elevator and his apartment, foot kicking the door shut behind him as he balanced dinner on one hand, the other pulling at his shoes.

“Eating alone again, John?” Mrs Shuen hadn’t beaten around the bush as he’d ducked into The Lucky Duck Takeaway, bluntness a quality John admired about the woman. But he’d had a bad day and without more than two words had collected his usual and paid, with a tip to match. She’d muttered something under her breath that John had chosen to ignore. Her heart was in the right place, not something John could say of many he knew. 

He picked at the food, appetite having subsided slightly on the journey home. 

Sock-clad feet resting on his makeshift coffee table, -an upturned moving box he just hadn’t quite got around to shifting, John settled into his sorry looking sofa with a tired sigh. John didn’t bother with lights, the large brick windows let in enough street light, (the upside to the downside that they also tended to allow in plenty of drunken shouts), as well as the TV illuminating his apartment.

The news was playing, left on from his early morning rush to the office. He unmutes it, and with a scowl immediately undoes the action, switching to listening to the orchestra of his upstairs neighbours and their ongoing domestic arguments.

 _Wonder who slept around this time?_ John thinks with a half-hearted chuckle and a bite of sauce covered chicken. The Beta couple upstairs seem to have more commitment problems than John and his attempt at eating anything other than take-out. This evening it sounds like both were as guilty as the other, but neither wants to back down. John rolls his eyes but keeps listening. Anything is better than the news.  

Mrs Sheun must be off her game, John thinks, as not two bites in his stomach let him know just what it thought of the food he was shovelling down. Unusual, but not surprising. John dumps the content in the take-out stuffed bin, eyeing it suspiciously. Maybe therein lies his problem. 

Maybe it’s time for a second attempt at a more nutritious diet, he muses, hands working faster than his mind as he grabs whatever his stomach doesn't object the look of. Plate laden with peanut butter covered banana chunks and a glass of milk, -the only things his sorry fridge can provide, he counts back and guiltily realises his last trip to the grocery store was over a month gone.

He’d been busy, he argued.

The tile of the kitchen against his sock covered feet felt nice, and it’s only as he balances his culinary concoction in one hand while clicking the slightly lopsided thermostat to _off,_ that John realises he’s warm. Like hot. Too hot for mid-Autumn in an apartment that keeps in warmth as well as it keeps out mould. There’s something there, a thought that’s niggling away at his tired mind but with the last of his energy zapped out from him by Mrs Shuen and her queries into his love life, John shrugs, stuffs a banana chunk into his mouth and curls back up on his sofa to listen to the crescendo of the soap opera going on upstairs. 

He wakes up clammy and fuzzy. it's quiet upstairs. His mouth dry and his head feeling like a semi’s just run it over. Twice. 

“Fuck...” John grunts, simply lying still for a moment. The heatings clicked off, he can tell by the lack of noise, the heating usually sounding like drums against his back walls, a unique quirk of his shoddy apartment. And he must have got up at some point, can hear the chirp of birds from the opened living room window. It’s light enough that he knows it’s not quite night but still not late enough to be called morning.

He knows. Instantly he knows that this is one of two things. He’s either horrendously hungover, a usual occurrence if he pairs a bad day with an equally excited Josh. But he’s not fool enough to think that’s what this was. 

“Fuck,” He mutters, still lying prone on the disgustingly wet sofa. He’s in heat.

To be precise he’s in pre-heat. Flu symptom? Check. Weird cravings? John eyes the half-finished banana, now a slightly brown colour, and finished glass of milk. _Check._ He sits up, muscles complaining loudly. The only thing missing is underwear full of gross inconvenient sl- 

 _“Slick.”_ John groans aloud, the sticky sensation of his sweatpants clinging to the soiled material of his underwear becoming obvious.

His cock gives a half-interested twitch. Oh, _absolutely not,_ John thinks with a scowl, leaping from the sweat-soaked sofa onto thankfully cool flooring. He’d managed to kick his socks off in his sleep and the cold flooring distracts him enough from the strain of moving too quickly.

It’s around a time like this that one such as John would whine pitifully, glands swollen and scent enticing as they'd call for their mate. Who’d take one look at their debauched Omega, probably growl something along the lines of, ‘I’m gonna fuck you full of babies,’ before doing just that all while the little omega begged and pleaded for it, with little pitiful fucked out noises falling from their swollen lips. Except John doesn’t have an Alpha knot to fuck himself into oblivion with. His alpha comes in a bottle and requires no fucking.

It’s not a pretty sight that greets him in the harsh lighting of the bathroom, -or at least it is to some, in some disgusting backwards way. He looks edible, guesses that’s the point. 

His hair is shiny and full, plastered with sweat to his forehead. His lips are flushed as are his cheeks and John guesses most of his exposed skin. He raises a single shaking finger to his neck, the sensitive skin just below his jaw, ghosting it. A mistake he regrets at the whimper that it causes and the gush of pre-slick that trickles uninvited down his leg. He looks utterly fucked through.

The pills bring instant relief. Completely false, as a long time suppressant user, John knows effects take hours. It’s more a subconscious thing, but it’s enough for his cock to start flagging, knowing it won’t be getting the pleasure it was seeking. Any remnants of pleasure are washed away by the cold shower John subjects himself. 

He’s no prude. John Blake enjoys sex, enjoys getting fucked as much as the next man (Or woman), just doesn’t understand the sick fascination that people -especially his sexual partners- have with an Omega in heat. For John, it's a nuisance that he’s avoided since he learnt of suppressants. To him, there’s nothing sexy about becoming a mindless fuck, someone who can’t say no, desperate for anything that will relieve the pain. Pain, that’s what the beta’s that he fucks forget as they fantasise about John being in heat. They forget that heats aren’t just a pleasure-trip every three months, but they _hurt._ A stomach pain so bad that can have some Omega hospitalised, dehydration, starvation. And Alpha mates? Well for John that’s a whole other problem in itself.

He’s just out of the shower when his phone buzzes. It takes four wipes of damp fingers before he can unlock it, and his eyes widen.

_Josh the Idiot_

      5.20 am

_There’s another one, east bank river, thought you’d want to know._

 

He doesn’t have to think twice before replying, thoughts already swirling and clothes hastily being thrown on. His heat is forgotten. He’s got more important things to worry about.

 

_John_

    5:21 am

_I’m there, cover for me._

* * *

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh honey, you’ve got a big storm coming.


End file.
